Two Poems

Unfinished

My husband has trouble finishing things.
When he washes the dishes

he leaves at least one pot in the sink and a few pieces of silverware.
He says that my writing about this

may constitute lashon hara, speaking negatively about others.
‘Not finishing things is zecher l’churban,’ he adds,

a way of remembering the destruction of the Temple
which stood in Jerusalem nearly two-thousand years ago.                         

Now he’s in the other room making the bed, which will look lovely
except for a few untucked corners, a pillow askew,

strange for a man who is slightly OCD, who can’t bear
a slanted piece of paper on my desk.

                                                    Yesterday, he almost
finished his article on Ælfric’s use of Latin in Old English prose,

and he began one of the tasks on his list of things to do.
...